


Read Me

by GENE5I5



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Gen, Gender-Neutral Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Love Letters, Pining, Unrequited Love, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28533894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GENE5I5/pseuds/GENE5I5
Summary: Light is more important than the lantern, the poem more important than the notebook, and the kiss more important than the lips. My letters to you are greater and more important than both of us. They are the only documents where people will discover your beauty and my madness.-- Nizar QabbaniLucifer has a terrible habit of writing letters addressed to you and tucking them away in the pockets of his drawer.
Relationships: Lucifer & Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) & Reader, Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 97





	1. To my beloved,

**Author's Note:**

> enjoy something i curated in the middle of last year in the midst of my 'loving-Luci' phase and never managed to finish until now. inspired by ha:tfelt's song, "read me" and aspects of kafka's "letters to milena". i suggest listening to the song to achieve the same... melancholy i experienced while writing :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW spoilers for an event near the beginning of the game! couldn't pin point where it exactly happened, but it happened... i think. at least before chapter 7(?)

Now, it’s 5 in the morning. The Devildom nightly moon dresses itself for dawn as the dawn-bringer himself is asleep over his desk. Another night restlessly spent on Diavolo’s endless tasks, but they weren’t the only things that were sprawled on his desk.

Underneath the piles of documents lies an ink-filled piece of paper that he so calculatedly hid, like a secret cheekily drawn under the cover of an unsuspecting book -- his current piece to you. Or what he intends to send to you, but he always falls short.

It’s far too messy to send, anyways. Littered with sharply scratched out words, blots of ink as evidence of a lingering quill, and hasty handwriting that tried to catch up with his running thoughts.

He was never one to sprawl his feelings on the brief spaces of an abandoned take-out menu, or on a tea-stained napkin that held the warmth of your cup. Just like how he wasn’t one to fold a paper’s edge in a book in replacement of a bookmark, or leave the bed undone, or have his uniform wrinkled.

But when a surge of emotions rushed him in a time of inconvenience, oh, how he held onto those thoughts.

Do you sense his change in gaze? The way the crease between his eyebrows softens ever so slightly? His mouth deepens his routine grimace to balance the change, hoping no one notices.

But secretly, he hopes you did.

Can you read the anxiety, the aching to get his thoughts out, as he shifts from one foot to the other? Do you see his revelation at the invention of another thought, another way to describe your ineffable beauty?

He sought for neatness and did all that he could to preserve a poised appearance. And he accomplished that facade with everything, but his feelings for you; like a billowing wave, he was as temperamental as the seas, dependent on the moon that raised and lowered him at its own will.

Rage was one of the only things that greatly stirred Lucifer, knowing it well enough to have bore it; but now, he was beginning to reconsider.

When a stray hair falls before your eyes, he resists every urge to tuck it behind your ear. He must keep his facade up.

If only you could read the fondest gaze he gives you, itching fingers grasping for your warmth.

If only you could look at him, allow his fingers to brush your hair away, lean into his lingering palm.

_Don't turn away._

If only you realized that the daunting book -- black and matte, sturdy and smooth with the title engraved on the uncracked spine -- held stories that went beyond the human color spectrum. Pages that aged with centuries, recounting history and days of yore from the realms it belonged to.

 _Read me_ , these orders have devolved into hesitating questions, shaky pleas.

Each letter had its own unique taste to it: one greets the reader with _‘Dear lover’_ that he had written in the midst of a tipsy night (and so bashfully hid beneath all the piles of documents and letters the morning after), another evading all greetings and getting straight to his thoughts, and earlier versions that waltzed right around those thoughts.

Most began with your name so eloquently woven into the paper, as if it was his second-nature to write it out. A name too sacred to carry in his mouth, where instead, his hand had found familiarity in. Every curve twirled with care, each stroke scratching his pride down.

In fact, his writings didn’t start off as love letters, but began as simple formalities riddled with thoughts he has come to accept.

Observations of your impact in Devildom and its inhabitants. Thoughts stemming from witnessing the crook of your arm latched onto someone other than him. Realizations when thinking about the nape of your neck as the breeze pushes the world forward.

As the nights drew out and his mind unraveled from the carefully spun thread, matter-of-factly statements became sentimental reflections, and lovesick pleas bled into his boastful remarks. It took a couple of months before his letters were only full of emotions -- of disquiet and wonder, of loss and hope, but he’s always managed to end with thoughts of you.

Vena amoris often overtook his hand, betraying his head, but lucky for him, the least calculated is the most passionate.

He’s kept all the letters he’s written to you. Paper ranging from black, smooth cardstock with red trimming used for various professional matters, to delicate, almost translucent, paper that caught his eye in the store because it ~~reminded him of you~~ was on sale, at a good price. Decorated with overflowing written soliloquies to unlinked, spur of the moment thoughts, and translated with glass dip-pen scribbles to graphite marred by fingerprints.

The more he reaches into the root of his feelings, the longer the tip of his writing utensil bleeds into the paper.

One session, he was so deep in thought, hesitant to move the pen, that it left a pearl-sized blemish on the polished, pine desk. As much as he scrubbed, the blot had already written itself into the surface, mingling with the wood and making itself at home.

Many letters recounted interactions that have taken root in his brain. Not even full-fledged interactions, but moments.

Of how your laugh comes and goes, like a sudden ringing to his ears.

Of how his brain stutters when he sees your face twist in disapproval as he scolds Mammon, yet again.

Of how your eyes brush past him and to the scolded. Your softened gaze and frown of concern causing an annoyed click of his tongue.

Of times he questioned ' _Were, no, why were you always so fond of_ that _particular brother of his?_ '

Of the times he wanted to say, moreso show, ' _Don't look away_ ', both consciously and subconsciously.

Of times he remembers why he loves you, of how much he loves you, of how he will miss you.

_"Do you ever miss the sun?" you ask him one afternoon. You take a sip from your cup, tongue meeting the silky, herbal chamomile, and eyes meeting the velvet voids of his._

_"I've grown accustomed to the moon."_

_You break away from the cup, "But, that's not what I asked."_

_His eyes linger on your lips, with remnants of flowers and honey teasing him._

_"Lately, when I find myself missing the sun," he pauses, shifting in his seat._ I look at your face, _"I visit the human realm."_

_Your nod of understanding eases him._

_"Do you miss it often?"_

Always, _"At times."_

Every letter also had their own distinct scents.

The woody fragrance of the leather from his gloves remained on the ones he wrote during a spur of the moment. At the dead of nights, his bare wrists rub off a musk laced with sweetness and spice on others. The ones he left out on his desk, while asleep and slumped over, exposed an edge that absorbed the quiet candle he was burning; the day after, he and the letter radiated the hazy wax.

And other times -- in a drowsy daze, moments after he awakes -- the smell of his bed is faint on the skin of the paper after exchanging a waking thought, a rising feeling he wants to remember. 

He finds it quite difficult to finish a letter properly -- how is one letter supposed to convey a thousand feelings? Another thousand kisses? And a couple thousand touches?

During every abrupt sign off that cuts his confession short, he contemplates even more than the last.

 _Warmest regards?_ His mouth would twitch.

 _Sincerel_ _y?_ A leg would start bouncing.

 _Affectionately_?He thought of discarding the letter altogether.

He's learned what love letters ought to be from human-written ones, but he still finds himself so bashful to end in the ways they do. His pride reigned all, but his love were certainly testing its boundaries.

If only you could read him, then, it would be easier.

_Would it really?_

With each letter, each passing day, a feeling has only gotten stronger -- the feeling that he's writing to your ghosts, phantoms of your former self. The you he missed as he suffocated himself with work, one he watches from afar, another he is so desperately trying to catch up to.

Akin to the seasons, you're changing so rapidly, he can't help but marvel at your progress.

From the little changes, like how you've joined Levi in his daily Mononoke Land quests like clockwork or how you've willingly followed Mammon's recurring schemes.

To drastic changes, like how you stared right into the eyes of death by standing in between him and Beel and Luke. One mortal, one demon eye to eye, measuring each other's abilities. How your eyes held a daringness, of anger and risk, of security and fear.

Oh, how he wrenches at the thought of instilling fear in you.

That's what fascinates him about you, he's learned after sneaking glances at your side profile for the umpteenth time -- you were never one thing, but an amalgamation of unique experiences, of turbulent emotions, of foreign lands.

And despite it all, you insist to love to the best of your abilities.

But, maybe you have always been like that. Maybe he has just been reading the SparkNotes, while his brothers have been indulging in the full novel.

When you leave for the human realm, he will cherish the fact that he was lucky enough to have you recorded in his immortal life. Would you be a sentence? A chapter, a dedication? An impromptu novel tacked onto his series?

With every unsent letter is a new page in his book -- pages ripped out, taped back in, and filled to the brim.

His book has gotten thicker, have you noticed? More worn, more chaotic -- an author with endless ink and archaic emotions is dangerous.

He hadn’t thought past the writing process -- not like he needed to. But when he would finally decide to send you a piece of his heart, if he decides to, how would he secure it?

Cast a spell on his words for your eyes only? How would he send it? Mail it through the Devildom Postal Service addressed to you? Lay it at the foot of your door and watch from afar? Or hand it to you directly, eyes locking with yours as your fingers kiss in exchange?

They never leave the safe confines of his study, but he leaves it out purposefully at times; when he knows you’re near, where he knows your curious eye will wander.

But the antique newsprint have honeyed as the nights pass, the white musk is lifting, and dust is starting to gather -- when will you read him?


	2. Yours,

Now, it’s 5 in the morning. You’ve awoken from your slumber, a little too early, to release a full bladder.

Afterwards, drowsily stumbling out of your room to satisfy a parched throat, you catch an orange glow leaking out of Lucifer’s study. A bewildering, but not uncommon, sight to still see him working through the moon’s descent into dawn, you drag your feet to greet him an early ‘good morning.’

Soft raps on his door signals your presence and you nudge it open.

There, he rests, hair thrown like a subsided storm with papers scattered from the aftermath underneath him.

Remembering how this would be the best opportunity for a candid sleeping pic, you pat your pajama pockets for your phone but you remember you left it charging near your bed. Frowning slightly in disappointment, you think about creeping out to get it, but the tranquility of his sleeping face stutters your heart.

The rare peacefulness of his face tugged your heartstrings to his side, basking in his most vulnerable state.

A lock of his hair falls before his eyes; before your mind could chase out all the lingering dreams that clouded common sense, your hand reaches for the loose lock and gently moves it back in place.

You study him at his most natural; the rise and fall of his back, quiet puffs of breath, the gentleness of his unfurrowed face, a face that could rival cherubs.

He truly is otherworldly.

The soft blaze of the fireplace may ease some chilliness of the room, but the extreme temperatures of Devildom overpower the light crackling. You remove the jacket placed on his chair and drape it over his shoulders.

His eyes flutter open, half-lidded irises meet yours and you think you find a piece of heaven.

He hums out a half-hearted greeting as his lids slowly drop again, and the hovering hand above his back rests.

“You fell asleep here.”

Half a mind asleep, the other half conscious, but all soothed by your drowsy voice. He finds himself thinking he could get used to you being the first thing his senses take in.

He situates himself to where his cheek rests on the table, squishing his features. You really wished you had your phone now.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

He’s dozing off again.

By the time he's awaken from his slumber, it's well over his usual wake-up time. But thank Devil that it's the weekend. He's still in his sleeping position, dreading the inevitable soreness of his neck to come when he shifts.

Instead of moving, he tries to think back to last night, determining whether you were a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination or a dream come true, but the haziness of post-slumber battled his grasp on reality.

Lifting his head to finally get a move on with the day, a piece of paper that fused with his cheek peeled off.

A piece of paper, smudged and wrinkled, that held the events planned for your final day in the Devildom. A day that is dreadful for all and is arriving way too quickly.

Was it too early for a glass of Demonus?

* * *

Some time, during some day, he finds himself pondering at his desk, yet again. While continuing to work on tedious documents, his mind couldn't help but wander off into the pockets of his memories.

Memories of you, unsurprisingly.

His strained eyes fixated on a piece of document softens.

An exhausted mood exchanged for a sentimental one, unsurprisingly.

The warmth greeting his body stirs his hand to retrieve a blank piece of scratch paper and a fountain pen that has witnessed all of his feelings.

The tip of the pen hovers, centimeters away from the frail paper that anticipated its touch. Its owner lingers above the blank canvas, occupied with a hesitating question, until he eventually makes the first stroke that becomes your name.

> _After millennia of falls, rises, and rebirths, I have been reduced to a demon that loves a mortal._ _What more is there to say, other than 'I love you'?_

Two pairs of footsteps pass his closed study. Accompanying them are a mix of Mammon's loud guffaw with your contradictory sweet chuckle.

So sweet, his tooth is decaying. Aching, rotting, egging him on.

> _I miss you. and I shall continue to miss you unfathomably, anxiously, deliriously._
> 
> _Despite the world entering winter, spring has come early. Thus, consequently, it must leave early. I often wondered why humans are so fleeting, if they were faulty by design or simply a mediator between the two other realms. I have come to realize, akin to the many stars in your native sky, you shine so beautifully bright, radiating love to the best of your abilities, even as your expiration is nigh. And you shall continue to love, even if no one will bear witness, even at the edge of destruction. But I believe I am lucky enough to witness your shine, to bask in the warmth of your glow and the beauty of your twinkle. Despite the tragedies and events, with faults and all._
> 
> _And I shall love you through it, deeply, terribly, unequivocally._
> 
> _You have stirred something within me in the span of these few brief months, and you will continue to haunt the remainder of my life._
> 
> _But please, do not interpret this as some fleeting schoolyard crush; even I was not fully aware that I am capable of falling so fast. Perhaps you are the only exception. With a body torn from decades of wars and worn by millennia of taking different forms, I felt as if there was nothing left to mold, stretch, or mend. But there is this feeling, a longing, aching, in my bones that I cannot shake._
> 
> _Something more honest than love. And perhaps something more hollow than happiness._

He pauses, another letter tainted with a bitter taste. But he must tread on, unfiltered and without regret.

> _Despite it all, every night I thank the moon that fate has led me to you. Whether it be the fate from my own doing, or the realms coming into perfect alignment, I feel as if we were meant to meet._
> 
> _In fact, I do not believe we were ever strangers. There may be more humans for the next exchange program, but there will never be another you._
> 
> _So I shall treasure you in my heart, forevermore._

The last punctuation grew bigger as he remained frozen, mulling over the final goodbye.

> _Unapologetically yours,_

A soft knock halts his pen -- your muffled voice calls out his name from behind the door. Hastily folding the paper on impulse, he grabs the nearest document and places it on top of the letter.

He tries to subdue his eagerness, "Yes?"

The door creaks open and your head pops in. "Hey, dinner is starting," you enter the room, keeping a foot propping open the door.

"Very well. I shall be there in a moment."

"I'll wait for you," letting the door close behind, you walk towards the red, leather chairs.

"That would be nice," he nods.

Your eyes drift towards his desk swamped with paper. Your eyebrows raise in amazement, "Diavolo hasn't been giving you any breaks lately, has he?" You make your way to his side and lean down, reading the document he's currently working on. "Oh, another ball?" 

His eyes are transfixed on your side profile. Quickly registering what you said, he blinks away and quickly scans the document, "The skeleton of one."

"I can't wait," you hum excitedly.

By the time he looks back at the spot where you once were, you're now standing before the great window behind him. Bathing in the moon's light, looking far into the horizon. He's staring at your back, lit by the orange flames that cast a dance from the fireplace. It's hard to see where the fire's glow and moon's beam meet.

_Is this what they mean when they say that the moon misses the sun?_

Your head is held by wonder, eyes glossed in thought, longing for something distant. _Who is_ your _sun?_

He takes a peek at his folded letter, now stained like a Rorschach test thanks to the fresh ink.

 _Perhaps next time._ He folds the paper again and tucks it in a drawer filled with similar letters that face the same fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope i captured Lucifer's essence in some way, it's been a while since i've thought deeply about him. but LMK what you thought or if you have any suggestions! thanks for reading :)


End file.
